Remembering Home
by todaywasasherlockday
Summary: Sherlock loses in memories after getting hit by a car. John must help him recover them. Along the way, new developments in their relationship come to pass. Basically just a bunch of fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**I'm sorry for this mess. I just wanted to write a fic in which Sherlock has amnesia...**

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When he woke up the lights were blinding. He was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He'd tried to move of course, but even the smallest movements hurt so he resigned himself to staring at the incredibly boring ceiling. _A hospital ceiling, _his brain informed him.

"Sherlock?" He heard a male voice ask on his left.

He tried to reply, but his throat was too dry and wouldn't allow him to say anything. Instead, a horrible croaking noise made it's why out of his throat.

"Just wait one second. I'll get you some ice chips."

The man left and came back. He set the small cup he'd retrieved on the bedside table and helped him into a sitting position. Carefully, the man fed him the ice chips out of the cup.

When he could finally speak again, he replied, "Who's Sherlock?"

The man, who had previously been smiling lightly, frowned.

"You're Sherlock."

"I..." He furrowed his brow, trying to remember something, anything about himself or his life, "I can't remember," He started to panic slightly, "Who are you? How did I know you? What happened? Why can't I remember?!"

The man put down the, now empty, cup and sighed, "I'm John. John Watson. We're flatmates. You had an accident. You ran into traffic, and you were hit by a car. You hit you're head pretty bad. I can go get the doctor, if you'd like?"

Sherlock nodded. He seemed so young in that moment that John couldn't help but gently brush his hair off his forehead.

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When John returned with the doctor, he reclaimed his seat on Sherlock's left. He had the unexplainable urge to hold Sherlock's hand, but refrained. After all, Sherlock didn't know who he was anymore. That thought made John want to cry.

"Mr. Holmes." The doctor started, "What do you remember?"

"Nothing." He replied ruefully. It felt like something he should be ashamed of.

The doctor smiled sympathetically, "At the very least you remember how to talk."

The doctor then preformed a series of tests, "We'll need to get you in for a CAT scan to check to make sure there has been no permanent damage to your brain, but so far, it seems as if everything is fine, except for the memory loss."

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Sherlock was scheduled for a CAT scan later that week, but was cleared to leave for the time being. John and Sherlock caught a cab to 221b baker street. John remained silent the entire journey, unsure on what to say. The address sounded vaguely familiar to Sherlock, as if he was trying to remember a detail from a dream.

Unfortunately, the street front and the entrance way did not stir any new memories in him.

"We live upstairs." John said, motioning in the direction he was speaking of.

Sherlock nodded. He felt like a guest here so he waited for John to lead the way.

As soon as the door opened, a few memories came back to Sherlock. He remembered playing the violin at the window and lying on that couch and using the lab equipment scattered in the kitchen. Most of all, he remembered how this flat felt like home.

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**That seems like a good a place as any to end this chapter. It isn't finished yet though :PI apologize for any inaccuracies in the medical jargon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Welcome Back :) I hope you enjoy the new chapter :)**

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"John," Sherlock, started. Even though he knew the name was right, it felt strange in his mouth, "I remember this."

John, who had been moving towards the kitchen, _probably to make tea _Sherlock's brain informed him, stopped and turned back.

"What, exactly, do you remember?" John asked cautiously, as if his voice could make Sherlock forget again.

"I remember this being home. I remember how this place always felt like home to me." Sherlock replied honestly, not caring to sensor himself.

John smiled, "Thanks. I suppose."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, asking John a silent question.

"We moved here together. You'd only moved in about a day before I did. You saying that this place was home. It's... nice."

"I take that I'm not a very emotional person."

"There's an understatement," John smiled, but Sherlock noticed a bitter look in John's eyes, "Tea?"

Sherlock nodded absentmindedly, taking off his coat and scarf. He felt at ease here. It wasn't clean by any stretch of the imagination, but the clutter was comforting to Sherlock.

He sat in the chair closest to the kitchen. A few minutes later John came out of the kitchen carrying two mugs of tea. When he saw Sherlock sitting in the plush red recliner, his smile fell slightly.

"That's normally my chair." He said as he handed Sherlock his tea.

"Oh. I'm sorry." He replied, making to stand.

"It's fine," John replied, waving his hand in dismissal. He picked up the book that sat next to what was supposedly "John's Chair" and went to sit in the black chair that sat opposite.

As John read, Sherlock stared at him, he was trying to size him up. Despite apparently knowing this man since he'd lived in 221b, he didn't know what to make of this man.

"You know, it's kinda hard to read with you staring at me like that." John said without looking up from the page that he was reading, disrupting the silence that had fallen over the room.

"I'm sorry."

"That's twice." John replied, putting his book down, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you weren't really Sherlock."

"Did I not apologize?"

"Very rarely. You were very sure about everything and thought social graces weren't worth your time."

"Can I ask you some questions?"

"Sure. What do you want to know?"

"Do I have any living family? I'd say no, considering you were the one at my bedside not anyone I am related to."

"You have one sibling and both your parents. You and your brother get on each other's nerves. Your parents are in... Iceland? Either way, they're unreachable at the moment."

"Hmmm... What did I do?"

"You were a consulting detective."

"What is that?"

"It's like a consultant, but you didn't actually work for the police. You just kinda... helped out when they were out of their depth."

"Is that actually a job?"

"Not really, you invented the job."

"I sound like a bit of a prat."

"Yea, but the few people who saw past your outward prattish-ness really cared about you?"

"And now?" Sherlock asked, concerned. He noticed John was speaking in the past tense. Why was he doing that? Sherlock was sitting right there. Granted, he couldn't remember much, but he was still Sherlock.

"We still do," John reassured, "But you're different right now. If you get your memories back, there is a possibility that this experience will change you."

While the reassurance had done it's job and reassured Sherlock that he was not alone, John using "if" instead of "when" sent Sherlock into a full-blown panic attack.

"Sherlock? Are you ok?" John asked nervously, but Sherlock either couldn't hear him or ignored him. John knew that Sherlock was having a panic attack, but he was unsure whether touching Sherlock would help or not.

"Sherlock, just breathe. Breathe."

Sherlock acknowledged John this time. He looked up so that he was staring John right in the eyes, but his breath still came in ragged pants.

John decided that he had to do more than just tell Sherlock to breath. Quickly, he went over to Sherlock and crouched down in front of him so that their eyes were level. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and starting speaking in what he hoped was a soothing voice, "Sherlock, you have to calm down. You need to breathe. Try to mimic my breaths, ok?" John began to breathe deeply and slowly between repeating soothing words to Sherlock.

Eventually, Sherlock's breathing evened out and he didn't look as shellshocked anymore. Although, he did still seem a little stunned.

"Do you want some tea?" John asked Sherlock gently.

"John."

"What?"

The word, spoken at a normal volume after many minutes of gentle, soothing, quiet words seemed to break Sherlock out of his reverie.

"Tea would be great. Thank you." Sherlock amended.

"Alright. You ok?"

"I suppose so." Sherlock replied, folding his hands under his chin in what he now knew was his thinking position. It seemed a panic attack could help in the recovery of his memories.

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**So that's the next chapter :) I hope you guys enjoyed it... Let me know.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I don't even know what is happening**

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"Sherlock? Sherlock! SHERLOCK!"

When Sherlock came out of his mind palace (which, thankfully, was almost fully intact) he was lying on his back on the couch and John was yelling his name at increasing volumes.

"For god's sake what, John?" Sherlock replied, exasperated.

"You've been in that head of yours for at least 12 hours. You need to eat!" John replied, handing Sherlock a piece of toast on a plate.

"Ugh. Eating. Eating's boring."

"What did you remember?" John asked.

Sherlock was clearly surprised by John's bluntness, but kept his voice fairly neutral as he replied, "You really are more perceptive than I give you credit for John."

"Thanks, but don't avoid the question."

Sherlock huffed, and sat up from his horizontal position.

"Certainly not 32 years worth of memories, but most of them from ages 5 to 8, some from my teenaged years and some from the past 5. Uni is all a bit of a blur."

"It wouldn't surprise me if uni was a bit of a blur when you had all your memories." John replied, sitting down next to Sherlock. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that he was sitting far closer than he needed to.

"I'm assuming my past usage of recreational drugs has something to with that."

John just smiled sadly, "You never really talked about it, but I figure it was around you're uni days when you partook."

"I can remember starting when I was 17, so that assumption would be accurate."

"When did you start remembering this stuff?" John inquired.

"The panic attack seemed to trigger some of it, but some I regained gradually."

"Do you remember anything about our time together?" John asked, shifting even closer to Sherlock.

"No. You're still a blur," Sherlock replied sadly.

"But you said that you remembered some stuff from the last 5 years. I've been around for most of that time." Sherlock could tell that John was disappointed by Sherlock's inability to remember him.

"And I can. I can remember the serial killer case with the woman dressed all in pink and an elephant in a house in the middle of London but you're a blur. I remember someone being there and I know that it is you but my subconsciousness is not co-operating and can't seem to remember that it is actually you."

"Oh," John seemed less disappointed now, but there was still sadness in his eyes when he smiled, "Do you want some tea?"

Sherlock merely grunted his assent. He was frustrated at his inability to remember his friend. Sherlock's train of thought ground to a halt. He stood and moved to lean against the barrier between the living room and the kitchen where John was whistling as he made tea.

"John, are we friends?"

John looked up at him, surprised, "Of course. We are best friends. You didn't believe me when I first told you that." He smiled fondly at the memory of his friend being completely baffled, so much so that he drank from a cup of tea that had an eyeball floating in it.

"How did we meet?"

"Mike Stamford introduced us. You told me my entire life story, including my drunkard sister and her divorce before offering to share a flat. The next day, we went on our first case together, the one with the pink lady actually, I shot a cabbie and the rest is history."

"How did I tell you your whole life story?" Sherlock asked.

"You called it 'deduction.' I don't really know how you did it, but you always told me that 'if you just look, you could see what I see.'"

"Ok, let me try."

John smiled, but it was a weak smile and it did not reach his eyes.

Sherlock's eyes scanned John for a few moments before he started to speak, "You were married. I'd say it was a short marriage and it ended recently. It wasn't amicable. You don't really have a family. Or at least not one that you're close to. You have a sister, obviously. I'd say older. You lost someone important to you a few years ago," John tensed at this, but didn't say anything so Sherlock continued, "You are incredibly loyal, but have trust issues. Used to have a psychosomatic limp and was wounded through the left shoulder while in the army. You were an army doctor. You are bisexual. And you are addicted to adrenaline."

"All right except one." John replied in a neutral tone.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked, concerned that his ability had been affected by his recent trauma.

"I didn't lose anyone. Not really."

"Really? I could have sworn that was a funeral umbrella."

"It was your funeral."

It was Sherlock's turn for a look of confusion to pass over his face."

"You faked your own death so that you could stop Moriarty and disable his crime network abroad for two years."

"Oh. I cannot begin to imagine how that affect you. I am truly sorry, John."

John smiled wetly before pulling Sherlock into a hug.

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**Yay another chapter. I'm sorry for the shittiness of this.**


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